May It Be

by ElvenScribes

Of the wife of Thranduil precious little was known. Nothing, it seemed, remained of her within the mighty halls of the Woodland Realm, not even memory. All vestiges of her existence had been wiped clean, she lived on only in the mind of Thranduil himself, and by all accounts it was her death that had driven him at least partly mad. This is a tale of family, of friendship, and love.

3. Chapter 3

The frost had visited early, sprinkling the springy grass with icing, causing the branches to rustle as darts of cold mounted the gushes of wind, screaming the shrill song of winter.

Legolas drew a deep breath, exhaling a whirling cloud of white steam. It spiralled into the air, stretching out with tentative fingers to touch the glossy emerald surface of an oak leaf, before sinking into the shadowed depths of the Greenwood.

For Greenwood it now was. Last time the elf had looked upon his birthplace, it was brooding darkness, the trees beset by an illness that caused them to rot and wither, their insides vomiting grime. The ground had been dark, as if charred, spewing smoke and grovelling insects, and the clack of the spider's legs had been ever present, like the rustling of leaves or the sound of one's own breath.

Now, however, as Legolas stood tensely at the verge of the forest, his eyes were greeted by something altogether different.

It was clean, dry, bright. The path eddied on through hues of brown and soft green, and olive and grey. No blackness, no shadow, except those which the spreads of leaves cast upon themselves. They seemed to be holding their breath, watching the elf standing at the verge of the forest without so much as a sound.

The elf took a step forwards, feeling the skin of frost that covered the ground crunch under his light step. The wind laughed in his ear, a mocking voice, the voice of a child.

Go on it said. Enter your home, Legolas. Or are you afraid? What are you afraid of, Legolas?

Nothing the elf whispered, and closed his eyes. His leather-clad foot ascended, poised,teasing the threshold as it hung in the crisp air. It fell, followed by the other. A leaf quivered, and fell from its branch, swaying from one side to the other in the entrancing dance of death. It touched to the ground with a sigh, and all of a sudden the breeze ran through the trees, causing a cheer and rustle to rise from the green leaves.

The prince of Eryn Lasgalen had returned home.

Legolas felt his pace quicken, his feet noiseless upon the leaf-covered ground. The scents of the forest wafted towards him, of wood and wet soil, the breeze rising soft perfumes of beech and acorn and carrying them with crisp hands towards his nostrils. Suddenly, an abrupt vigour cursed through his body, a sudden tingling energy, and before he knew it Legolas was soaring through the air, his hands and feet barely touching down on wood as he flew from branch to branch, his lithe body gliding and twirling like that of a bird.

By the time he had alighted without a sound on the forest's carpet, he was half way to the fortress. This was the deepest part of the forest, where the trees grew taller than anywhere else, their knotted bark ascending further than the eye could see.

As his finger slowly stroked the ragged surface, laughter touched his brain, memories of happiness so pure that he began to doubt if they were even real. This was Tauriel's favourite part of the forest. Legolas had never asked why, but had followed her here all the same, and he recalled vividly, in saturated hues of white and green, how they had raced up these trees, spitting challenges to each other as to who could climb the highest. They would swing up, weaving through the boughs, until the ground was out of sight and all there was were leaves and blinding sunlight.

But neither of them ever won. Every time the young elf saw the trophy branch, he thought he must be the victor, and with a shout he would grasp it, only to feel another hand close at precisely the same moment, their skin brushing, stone against stone.

Then they would proceed to grunt at each other, and begin flying down the tree to see who could arrive at the bottom first, pushing the other so that they would fall.

And, as if a spectre of his thoughts, something swooped to the ground beside him.

Legolas turned in a flash, his bow drawn, ready to shoot. There was a sharp clink as the tip of his arrowhead touched another, the ringing sound echoing through the forest and abruptly breaking the pillowy softness that had previously basked the environment.

"Tauriel" he mouthed, but the words refused to leave his lips. He stood for a moment, incredulous, and then lowered the bow to his side, swiftly placing the unshot arrow into the quiver at his back.

The elf blinked, and then nodded at her, his eyes slowly surveying her face. It seemed older than before, more wise, etched with lines of experience and grief. But as his gaze reached her eyes, it stayed there, fixed on their depth, like bottomless pools whose surface reflects the night sky's stars.

"Mae Govannen, mellonamin"* he said, a hint of a smile touching the edge of his lips. "Cormamin lindua ele lle**"

*Greetings, my friend.

**My heart sings to see thee.